


Bewitched

by spacejargon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Suspense, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 07:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejargon/pseuds/spacejargon
Summary: Inanimate objects can't be possessed. Manipulation is an entirely different league, one that isn't necessarily concerning the strange book with blank pages and Enochian on its cover.





	Bewitched

Sam is placed with a book in his hands, a thick volume of Native American lore with crisp pages and an unyielding spine. Its purpose is proclaimed upon Sam not finding much on Native American lore within the bunker’s library, and like a good collector, Sam decides this tragedy will no longer cycle.

On the other hand, Dean finds himself in a twist of boredom and hampered by his laptop’s uselessness in solving that issue. The power of the internet at his hands, a modern marvel, and he doesn’t want to do anything.

It’s a long, slow day marked by a notch in the belt of a week with no cases. They should be celebrating the silence, and Dean had for the first few days. Watched porn, caught up on some shows, worked on the car. Everything he could think of was done in a matter of time, allowing true enjoyment of being able to do _nothing._

There’s an unrest deep inside him. It’s not hunger or thirst or a physical want for a real need. He’s eaten, drank, worked, and relaxed all the same. Sure, there’s always this nagging sensation that he can’t truly be too comfortable—understandable, given the nature of his occupation and in this life, nothing ever seems to go easy—but when he’s working with his hands, sometimes he can block it out.

His hands have worked and for the first time in a while, Dean is bored. Beyond bored, more like it, and phasing into a state of matter that’s not quite liquid but definitely not solid. He feels as empty as a gambler’s wallet and it should not be this hard to find something to do.

His pacing has alerted Sam to just as much. “Are you sure there’s nothing? Nothing close to us? No wendigos, angry poltergeists?”

Sam thumbs the line in his book before he looks up, his expression a mix of concern and bemusement. “No, I checked this morning. Didn’t you just spend an hour looking for cases?”

A derisive snort not only rebuffs him, it spurs a growing smirk that Sam wears as amused, as if taunting him. Maybe that last part’s just in Dean’s head—his frustration is starting to lash out, given nothing to do. “Maybe I was. There’s been nothing to do around here.”

Sam chuckles behind his hand, resting his chin in his palm and glancing up to Dean. “Work on the car? Go eat something healthy for once?”

Dean scowls, turning away from him and toward the shelves of books just across from Sam. “Already did. No need to rub it in—and seriously, rabbit food? I’m bored, not desperate.”

“Come on, you can’t seriously be bored already. It’s been...a week, I think?” Sam glances down to his book, as if considering his options. “Well, given that we’re always busy, it’s not too shocking.”

Ignoring him, Dean huffs silently to himself, skimming over the multitude of books he’s pretty sure Sam hasn’t read. He tugs out a book with some symbols he recognizes as Enochian, holding it up in front of Sam’s face. “You read this one yet?”

Sam squints to read the title, seeing as there’s nothing on the dark blue book remotely close to English on it. “Don’t think so.” He looks back down at his book, finding a better audience there than entertaining Dean with his unhelpful responses. “Why don’t you read it and find out?”

“What, not gonna tell me what it says?”

Sam raises a brow. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t. Go read it and lemme know how it goes.”

“Now you’re just being a douche,” Dean gruffs, taking the book in hand and glancing over the cover. The corners are worn and the book feels leathery in his hands, reeking of the darkest corners of a library. There’s gold lettering on the side, the same as the symbols for the title. Nothing whatsoever of an author or an English translation. “Why do I care?”

Sam shrugs. “Well, you can either go read that or stay here, but I have a feeling you’ll keep pestering me. So I can talk about a theory I’m forming about the green light in _The Great Gatsby_ being an ask-wee-da-eed.”

Dean stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What? English, please. I know you didn’t go to college just for the chicks.” He laughs at his little joke while Sam doesn’t look the slightest bit amused. “Oh, come on. Lighten up.”

His brother sighs and shakes his head, turning back to his book. “Native American will o’ wisp from the Algonquin Abenaki people. It’s the embodiment of fire and typically a sign of bad luck and misfortune.”

“Wasn’t that the light on the dock at Daisy’s house?”

Now Sam takes his turn to look surprised. “You’ve read the book?”

“Of course I have,” Dean snorts, deciding the blue book in his hands is going to be the most entertainment he’s going to get out of staying here. He’d normally go out and do something, like get a drink, but the drive isn’t there. “I’m not an idiot, Sammy.”

Sam calls to his retreating back, the book in Dean’s hands and the symbols still as elusive as ever. “I never said you were.”

If he wasn’t so busy staring holes into the book cover, he would’ve replied with a smarmy _bite me,_ but the gold symbols irk him just a little bit more than Sam does. Namely as he makes his way to grab a beer from the kitchen, setting the book on the counter and the gold symbols just feel like they’re familiar.

Weird. Anyway, he thumbs open the thick cover to the first couple of pages, which are unsurprisingly blank, and stumbles straight onto an image that looks like it was ripped straight from the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling.

It’s an angel, poised with a nasty-looking spear that strikes the familiarity chord and lets it ring. The angel isn’t clothed, his physique clearly in painstaking detail to show each and every curve of muscle and bone. His eyes are stern and downcast, following the point of his spear to the lower left-hand ivy-clothed corner of the image.

From his back there is a grand set of wings, thick with plumage and intimidating, to be honest. There’s not a name or shred of symbols on the page with the image to indicate who it is. _What_ it is—there’s no doubt. The broad wings, the whole nakedness factor, (do they really have to draw _those_ parts below the belt?) and a distinct recognizable quality to the sharpness of not only the spear, but the look on the angel’s face.

Beer long forgotten, Dean’s fingers splay over the book’s page, eyes narrowed as he flips to the next pages that are unsurprisingly...blank.

“You gotta be friggin’ kidding me...” He lets loose with a disgruntled sigh, abandoning the book to forage for his beer in the fridge. At present moment, he hasn’t drank enough beer to deal with some blank book that looks older than Hugh Hefner.

Grabbing the last beer within the fridge, he makes a mental note to badger Sam to get some more. Just as the fridge door swings shut behind him, his eyes slide back to the book on the counter. Only the image is back there again, flipped back from where Dean had left off.

“Well, that’s not freaky at all.” His beer in his left hand, his right hand falls onto the page with the image of the angel, his thumb falling over the page. The mystery book remains absolutely unexciting, just a picture of an angel with a dick and a spear. Yeah, real enchanting.

He takes a swig from his beer and flips through the book again. More blank pages greet him, up until he reaches one page that has a flicker of black as he’s thumbing through. But he’s been moving too fast and as soon as he catches it, it’s gone with the rest of the pages. Flipping back through lands him about twenty pages back and hell, he can’t find it.

Beer sounds like a great idea right about now.

“Really? A damn book’s gonna screw with me now?” Books are more Sam’s area, he decides as he closes the book. Especially the illegible ones with Enochian sigils because damn it, he doesn’t have the patience for this.

Whoever the hell wrote this wins the award for being the biggest dick of the year. Hell, even the century if the rest of the book is predictably blank. What the hell’s the point—some vanishing Enochian words, an angel with a dick, and some overall fuckery involved.

Before deciding to throw it at Sam, he entertains the idea of going through the pages, absently moving through them just to see if there’s really anything worthwhile. Not like he’s got something better to do, but anything’s better than a book with attitude.

After another swallow of cold beer, he stares the book’s cover down, trying to make sense of the Enochian title. “You gonna mess with me some more?” he mumbles to himself, with no response expected as he opens the book once again.

After the first few blank pages, he reaches the image of the angel once again. It’s creepy—the amount of detail in it. It’s completely colorless, nothing special save for the amount of skill dedicated to just one damn angel with a dick.

He turns to the next page. On the back of the image there’s more Enochian he doesn’t recognize from before. It’s not as big as the title but still the same font, in black ink nonetheless. On the page next to it, he sees a word in English.

_Antemeridian_

“You have gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Okay. Take a large swallow of beer, forget about book for one second. Relish the taste of good beer, ignoring that _somehow,_ somehow, this book may be screwing with him. Royally.

So he’s gonna have to consult Sam on possessed books with attitude. Not the craziest thing he’s seen. But definitely up there, slowly making its way up that list.

Antemeridian? What the hell does that mean?

Going by what Latin he does know, it’s not exactly profound knowledge.

He swallows the rest of his beer and steels himself before he turns the page.

~

The book comes up in a casual conversation. Sam’s sitting with a cup of coffee against the table, having relegated himself to the main room rather than the library for once. Whispers of a case or two have stirred in the news that he’s been skimming over on his laptop, all but forgotten by Dean in favor of the blue book sitting on his desk in his room.

His research has led him down stranger paths, that’s for sure. Ones that kept him up until early in the morning because damn it, the stupid book is messing with him.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean slides into a seat with a steaming mug of black coffee. One glance at the clock confirms it’s too early to be alive, around seven in the morning. “Can inanimate objects be possessed?”

Sam coughs and Dean realizes that he’d asked at an inopportune moment, with Sam drinking from his mug before coughing, caught off guard. He holds a hand to his mouth, keeping his mug far from his lips while he splutters for a second, sounding suspiciously like he’s covering a laugh.

“What...” he breathes harshly, coughing into his hand, “gave you that idea?”

_The entire history of humanity is hardly a shred of a fingernail in the history of this universe._

Google hadn’t been too helpful. “What, am I wearing a neon ‘I’m with stupid’ sign above my head?” He grumbles into his coffee as Sam shoots him a disparaging look. “I was looking at something. Thought you’d know something I didn’t.”

Sam shrugs, nursing his coffee though with a hint of interest. “Inanimate objects can’t be possessed by a spirit or poltergeist. They can be manipulated, but the vessel has to be alive. Or the spirit can be tied to the object. But you already knew that.”

“Not helping, Sam. Is there any way something can be used, like...maybe not possessed, but still kinda weirdly supernatural?”

Sam stares at him fully now, setting his coffee on the table and uncrossing his arms. “Okay, now you’re confusing me. Did you see a case? What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he curses himself for how quick to jump the gun he is with a response. “Just thinking of stuff. That we could face in the future. Yeah.” Oh hell, someone kill him now. “Gotta be prepared and all.”

Sam stares for a few more seconds until he shakes his head, his eyebrows raised high, but says nothing of his curiosity. “Never thought I’d say it, but I think the lack of cases is starting to get to you. Have you been actually researching this stuff?”

“What, I can’t research on my own?” Sam shakes his head, quick to deny it but as he opens his mouth, Dean continues. “I’m hurt. I was just talking to Cas, you know? He was mentioning something about some old book.”

The lie spins on his tongue but it has the worst effect—Sam’s intrigued. “Oh? What book?”

He reaches to his pocket and remembers his phone is there, pulling it out to go along with a horribly drawn out act. “Uh...still working on a name.” He hasn’t even thought of sending a picture of the title to Castiel. Not after the words appeared on the pages after the image of the angel and he hasn’t seen anything else. Just a few clicks on the internet don’t really have anything pinned down, but…

And isn’t it just his luck that his phone buzzes with a text from Castiel. He, momentarily forgetting the story he’s meant to be weaving, clicks on it and reads over the message.

_[Lateritious pertains to a brick red color. Not one commonly associated with spellwork, but perhaps pertaining to the Latin origin of the word, meaning ‘brick’.]_

Before he can formulate a reply, another text message buzzes into his hands.

_[I believe I am dealing with a small witch coven. Their use of Latin is coded and I am currently deciphering a poem that is meant to be a spell.]_

“What’d he say?” Dean nearly jumps right then and there when he’s forgotten Sam is still there, expecting an answer. Shit.

“Just that he found a book of poems. I think. Something about...later...itious?”

Sam nods, hardly convinced but he masks it well. “O...kay then. Well, I can look into it, so I’ll text him when I’m done with some stuff. Tell him to stop by if he needs anything.”

He gets up from the table, coffee in hand, and a small black book in the other. Going by the lack of sleep pressed under his eyes, Dean would say he’s been pulling all-nighters again, just reading for the fun of it.

“Don’t work yourself too hard,” Dean says as Sam passes by him, covering a yawn as he does. “Who knows when our next case will be.”

Sam’s bare feet pad down to the hallway. “Yeah, sure,” he murmurs aloud, disappearing down the hall. Dean watches him go, the muffled sound of Sam’s footsteps slowly fading until he can no longer hear his brother.

On the other hand, the elder Winchester sits at the table and sips his black coffee, hoping either the burn or the caffeine will wake him up. It’s not like him to get restless nights on days without cases, so he attributes it to a lack of exercise. Going too long without having some sort of shock to his heart must be unnerving him. Just a little.

His fingers move for him as he picks up his phone previously set on the table. [Hey, Cas, what’s that word, lateritious, for? In the spell.]

He pauses for a second and doesn’t hesitate to send another. [Sam’s curious. About the book or whatever.]

He doesn’t expect a reply, resolving to drowning himself in his coffee until his phone buzzes, startling him from the slowly advancing crawl of sleep behind his eyes.

_[In this context, I believe the spell is to be used to form a foundation of magic. A central fixture where magic is to be contained in the case of this spell. It does serve a purpose as a base for a more powerful summoning spell.]_

Before he can finish reading the first text, another buzzes in his hands.

_[Lateritious can also describe the color of an ingredient or a part of the spell itself. I am not certain yet. Tell Sam I will clarify on my findings once I have a solid conclusion.]_

“Could’ve just said ‘I don’t know’,” Dean murmurs with a shake of his head, hardly questioning Castiel’s less than usual word choice. Angel or not, he could at least try not to sound like a textbook when he texts Dean.

It’s the first he’s heard from Castiel in almost three weeks.

~

He hadn’t meant to do it.

Hours of staring at the book, flipping through each blank page with a frustrating whole lot of _nothing_ hadn’t taken Dean’s investigation anywhere. He should just put it back, considering it’s hardly worth the fuss that the angel’s book is worth. For some reason, he doesn’t think of texting Castiel for help.

It’s not like he wants to bother Castiel, given that heck, they’ve all been busy lately. Bringing Castiel into Dean’s little side project would defeat the purpose of having something to do. Yet while he’s looking for new jobs close by, he can’t keep his attention from straying to the golden symbols of the worn blue book.

A couple days have passed since he found it. Cases have been scarce and Dean is seriously considering permanent damage being done to his brain in his severe boredom. Cleaning guns and practicing his shooting had taken a good chunk of time in the meanwhile. Exercising in the mornings sometimes helped keep the itch in the back of his mind at bay.

He ends up with the book in front of him in his room, sitting at his laptop with a hand holding his head, glancing over news articles with no specific purpose. The book lies open before him, mysterious as ever, with that one word scrawled on the back of the picture.

“What the hell’s it supposed to mean?” he asks himself, not expecting an answer nor in search of one. At the moment, he’s frustrated and irritated enough to not care so much for finding a rational answer. According to the internet, there isn’t one.

Right before his eyes, the black symbols suddenly disappear, the English translation—oh hell, when did that go—no longer there as well. The suddenness startles him back into focus, namely as black Enochian symbols emerge from the page, writing themselves in the book.

When the symbols are finished, sat in the middle of the page, Dean looks, dumbfounded, and finds no equivalent on the other page. He’s just witnessed the book changing letters and that definitely confirms one of two things.

One, the book is possessed and Dean is not crazy. Two, if it’s not possessed, _something_ is going on here.

Pausing his thoughts, he stares at the symbols, trying to understand them and failing miserably. He reaches for his computer, thinking maybe it could help as he looks up a translator, his eyes on the symbols to burn them into his brain just in case they make another vanishing act and Dean isn’t hallucinating.

Lucky for him, the internet prevails for once. He ends up on a website that offers pictures of the Enochian words, letting him scroll through as he continuously looks back to the word on the page. There’s no need to, however, as it’s burned into the backs of his eyes already.

Somehow, he finds it. Well, not exactly what he’s looking for, but a rough equivalent. He settles on two words: _bright_ and _flowering,_ which very suddenly hits him with the realization that he’s hardly left square one, now with two words that sound weird having just appeared in a mishmash of symbols in an old book.

Never a dull moment with him.

“Bright?” he questions aloud, with some deeply rooted idea that maybe it would do something. When it doesn’t, he has to fight back the mild disappointment. “Flowering? What the hell does this mean? How is this book even talking to me?” He stares at it with disgust. “ _Are_ you talking to me?”

No response. Of course not. So...not possessed.

He refuses to give up so easily even as his phone buzzes, ignoring it in favor of not dealing with some attempt of conversation from Sam that’s really a veiled demand for food or something. Actually, it could be Castiel, which he hadn’t given much thought to in terms of that possibility.

Scrolling through lists of synonyms for both words, he finds more than a handful that have similar meanings. It’s only when he starts to murmur aloud to himself, reading off the words, that he feels a strangeness under his skin that can only be described as an uncomfortable itch.

“Flowering...illuminating...” Nothing sounds right. Maybe… “Eff...Efflorescence?”

He’ll be damned when the English word appears on the right page, exactly across from the symbols. Only it lasts for just a second once it forms, then disappearing with all traces of symbols or ink vanishing before his eyes.

The book leaves him with a clean slate.

“Why are you...What the hell do you want from me?”

The book, of course, doesn’t answer. The blankness of the pages taunts him, especially with what he’s just witnessed. But like an itch to be scratched Dean doesn’t back off quietly. Instead, he stares hard at the book and holds it open, determined to figure it out.

“Here, give me a sign that you’re talking to me. I don’t know what the hell you are, but...” The words die on his tongue as he waits and waits for more letters to appear. In hindsight, maybe he should’ve taken pictures to ascertain his non-crazy status. Right now, he’s sure not feeling far from that.

Before he can completely dismiss the book and its lawless nature, sure enough, symbols start appearing. In the middle of the left side is where it appears and on the right, English letters sink into the paper.

For some reason, Dean actually _knows_ this one. He can recognize some of the symbols for the color red, so he moves to the right page and it’s a jumbled mix of letters.

His fingers thread through his hair. What would Sam say, knowing what the hell Dean’s been up to, only to be one-upped by a damn _book._ Sucking in a harsh breath to sigh with a hiss doesn’t make him feel any better, especially when the word slips from his lips.

“Lateritious…?”

The letters start to move, like digits on a digital clock that change in place. Pretty soon they form the word in a font that Dean is assuredly convinced is sarcasm: _Lateritious._

“What the hell does that even mean? Whose side are you on, you stupid thing?”

In a breath, the ink disappears, leaving no trace of having been written. As he’s closing the book, ready to shove it off to the side, a text disturbs his phone with a lighthearted rumble.

When he checks the text, noted to be from Castiel, the ink reappears on the closing pages, scrawled as if reaching for Dean’s fingers when it spells _e_ _fflorescence_.

_[The text refers to the efflorescence of divine light, perhaps referring to a divine revelation.]_

_[My apologies. That was meant to be sent to Sam.]_

~

“So get this, there’s a possible case in Arizona that we could check out once we finish this hunt.”

Dean doesn’t answer, and when Sam glances over to the general direction of where Dean’s supposed to be, his older brother is flopped onto his bed. Normally, the image is nothing new. Except for when Sam looks a little closer and there’s a blue book in Dean’s hand and he feels a vague touch of familiarity, gone with the wind.

“...Dean? You there?”

Dean’s head comes up, staring down at Sam from the side closest to the bathroom. He doesn’t bother to move or show a little interest in anything Sam’s said. “What?” His fingers tighten around the book, something Sam doesn’t notice.

Sam’s lips quirk into a twisted smile. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your fantasizing. I was saying there’s a possible case in Arizona.”

His brother frowns and lays his head back down. “ _Arizona?_ Really?”

“Is there a reason you don’t want to, or…?”

Dean stretches all of a sudden, leaving the book at his side as his arms go up and over his head and he lets out a sigh. For once, he’s not pestering Sam on having something to do with their first case in almost two weeks. Thankfully, a vengeful spirit of a murdered housewife had been enough reason to get Dean out of the bunker and doing something with enthusiasm, even if it was shooting a ghost and having to console terrified children that their father was in a better place.

He had to agree with Dean, though. The husband wasn’t the greatest man, and once they figured out he’d been the one to kill his own wife with antifreeze, well, there just hadn’t been enough time to get him out before Dolores had her taste of revenge. Not how Sam had planned things to go, but he certainly didn’t feel sorry for him.

“It’s hot. And sandy.” Dean squirms on his lumpy motel mattress to flip himself facing the foot of the bed, his feet kicked off to the side. “Seriously, Arizona? What the hell is in Arizona that can’t be in...somewhere else?”

Sam stares at him expectantly before dismissing what he’s about to say. “If you’d been listening to a word I said, then you’d know that there have been news articles on people going missing and found drained of blood.”

Dean rolls his head to face Sam. His hand on the far side of him grabs the book from where Sam can see it, pulling it over to obscure it from Sam’s vision. “Vampires? Isn’t it pretty sunny this time of year down there?”

It catches his attention, nonetheless. “Could be, since they’ll just get a nasty sunburn if they do work in the daylight.”

Dean nods, a strange sight when he’s upside-down as his eyes wander to his other side where the book happens to be.

Hazarding his curiosity, Sam decides to speak up. “What’s that book? I haven’t seen you with a book since like...ever.”

Scowling, Dean shoots him a sideways glare as he forces himself upright, the book nowhere in sight. “I can _read,_ you ass.”

“Yeah, but you never read anything without pictures.” That’s not exactly true, but it does serve to get a rise out of Dean as he huffs. “What is it, old-fashioned accounts of pornography? Don’t tell me you’re reading erotica now.”

Dean raises a brow and narrows his eyes before he rolls them. “Yeah, Sammy, just some good ol’ fashioned porn. Old enough to be about angels.”

He pauses as if he hadn’t meant to speak while Sam chuckles, unaware and slightly disgusted by the prospect. “You’re reading angel porn? Is that even a thing?”

Dean smirks at him with a sly grin. “Could be. Guess you’ll have to wait your turn, little bro.”

“God, Dean—no, I don’t wanna see it. Please don’t.” He throws up his hands over his face when Dean looks ready to chuck the book at him, holding it over his head like he will. “I never thought that could be a thing. Tell me it’s not actual angels.”

Dean makes a face like a mix of amusement and disgust. “Well, there are naked ones.”

A pillow thwacks into Sam’s face and he retaliates with one of his own, laughing and disturbed all at once. “I said I didn’t need to know, Dean! What’s wrong with you?”

“Clearly not as much as sandy vampires,” Dean retorts, blocking a pillow headed straight for his head. “Hey, Samantha, you think they get sand ‘down there’?”

Sam covers his smile with a hand, shaking his head. “You’re the only one with an intolerance to _arenose_ geography, Dean.”

Instead of being rebutted with a laugh or a snarky comment, Dean is unexpectedly quiet. In fact, when Sam looks up at him, he could swear that his brother is a few shades paler, not looking at Sam but at some obscure point off to the side.

“...What did you say?”

“What, the desert?”

“No, not like that. ‘Air-uh-nos’?”

Sam raises a brow. “Arenose. Just a fancy word for being sandy.”

Dean doesn’t speak for a moment. When he does, it’s more of an indistinct hum. “Huh.”

The conversation starts to fade into the newly discovered science before Dean speaks up again. Sunlight from the setting sun slips through the folded blinds, reflecting on the sort of hectic past couple of days they’ve had. When Dean moves, his eyes look like they’re on fire from how they catch the sun and he squints through it. “Hey, has Cas said anything to you yet?”

“No,” Sam looks up from his phone, catching Dean’s eye with a strange look to them. It’s just the light, he tells himself. “Not since we left. What for?”

The older Winchester shakes his head. “No reason. Just wondering.” He fiddles with his phone like a suspicious teenager and Sam almost asks until Dean really starts to self-incriminate. “He sent me a text on something. ‘Efflorescent’ was the word. I think.”

Nothing rings a bell on that, so he shakes his head. “Nope, haven’t heard anything from him. What’d he tell you, exactly?”

“Nothing, really.”

Not weird at all.

~

A hard stare that could, given a physical aspect, crumble cities, does nothing to make the book budge. Staring at the open pages, the naked angel adorning the right page continues to glare down at his corner, his spear bearing down on the object of his wrath and his stupid chiseled body still perfectly in place.

A rough sigh rips free. “Lemme guess, you’re not possessed but you’re a shitty ass book you know. You don’t even answer me, and unlike something that’s actually _useful,_ you have an angel with his dick hanging out and nonsensical shit.”

He fixes the angel with a scowl, taking in the detail of its wings for the millionth time, no longer pointedly ignoring the dick hanging off the damn thing. It’s not bad at all, just like the rest of him—illustrated perfection.

Fucking naked angels.

The longer he stares at the angel, the more a theory starts to bubble up. It catches him off guard for a second, squinting at the angel’s face as he abandons his laptop beside him and the sting of his bandaged arm.

“...Michael? Is that what this is supposed to be?” The damn djinns in Arizona had left him with one hell of a headache by the time they’d been dispatched. It’d been messy, leaving him and Sam with their fair share of wounds to lick clean back at the bunker. But the thought plagues him as soon as the name comes to mind.

He focuses for a moment, trying to assuage a headache at his temple with his fingers. It would make sense, too, if the angel with huge wings and that much attention to detail is portrayed like this.

A sudden, rapid pulse at his head knocks him out of thought. He clutches his head with a groan and tries to remember if he locked his door. Through the irritating pound of his head he can’t let Sam find out what he’s doing, not yet. He’s gotten this far and _damn it,_ it _hurts._

“What...the hell...is your problem!?” His fingers tighten into the book’s page, threatening to tear the image straight out of the book. “What kind of asshole book attacks people…!” Dean gasps for air, grunting through the pain that sears straight through his eyes and resonates all throughout his skull. His vision quickly blurs and he’s more than certain that this book is either possessed or he’s lost it.

“Agh—dammit! C’mon!” Dean snarls at the book as the electricity in his brain starts to shoot down his spine, static bleeding from his fingertips. “Stop screwing with me!”

A voice grates through his ears and thunders in his head, two languages blurring messily into one. _“Speak to me.”_

“What the fuck do you…!” He tries to pry his hand off the book but his fingers are paralyzed, burning as if lit on fire and burning fire through his veins. He struggles to gasp for air in the process of fighting against the book, his entire body going rigid as his phone buzzes on his desk, just out of reach.

His vision burns into black, pinholing down to the sight of the angel and the voice cutting through his mind, searing him alive. The rest of his body is numb with electricity that streaks through each and every muscle, contorting him into an ungodly mix of alive and locked inside his own body.

The one word on his lips— _Sam—_ never makes it out. Instead, as Dean’s legs start to convulse and explosions batter the darkness behind his eyelids, inky black trails up his right arm and bleeds to the top of his skin.

 _Cynosure_ embraces him in a brilliant light before draping itself in grandiose darkness.

~

The matter is _sub rosa_ when Sam confides in Castiel.

After all, what’s hard not to say as soon as Castiel picks up on the third ring? “Cas, I think something’s wrong with Dean.”

Three days have passed since their case in Arizona that Dean had grudgingly gone on with him, prompting no curiosity unlike the past several days of wakefulness in the hours that Dean is considered technically a vegetable. After all, it’s nothing but unexpected to see him reading a book instead of downing a beer. Not like that’s a bad thing, but the way Dean goes about it unsettles Sam.

Only now, Dean hasn’t left his room since early last night. Sam is in the kitchen like a worried wife—damn it does he hate Dean’s voice in his head—and Castiel is there, because Sam caught a glimpse of the Enochian title to Dean’s book and doesn’t know what to think.

Castiel is patient. Confused, but concerned all the while. As concerned as an angel can be, especially with how busy he is these days. _“What’s going on?”_

He palms his face and tries to wipe off the humiliation rising from the ashes of the courage it took to call. “Look, it’s probably nothing and I’m just overreacting—but he’s just not being himself lately. Which normally isn’t cause for concern except that Dean’s been locking himself in his room instead of doing...what he normally does.”

“ _Have you both been working on stressful cases? I believe Dean’s behavior may be—”_ Castiel’s voice is unintentionally patronizing, like Sam doesn’t know his own brother as well as he does.

“Cas, we’re always stressed. Y’know, maybe I’m overthinking this,” his fingers grasp tightly onto the counter top and squeeze. The kitchen smells of burned toast from a faulty wire in the toaster and an explosive jump of his toast to his fatigue-addled brain.

To himself he mutters, “Must’ve been the djinn...”

Castiel is understandably perplexed. Sub rosa in a lack of divine insight. _“I’m sorry, what?”_ His voice sounds grave to Sam, churning with chunks of gravel in a low, growled noise. _“Is everything all right, Sam?”_

From behind, Sam catches the sound of shuffling footsteps that drag on the hardwood flooring, startling him out of his caffeine-less morning daze. Not even a run sounds tangible to him, at least without a cup of coffee and something that is assuredly _Dean_ making an attempt to pour himself some.

“Coffee’s not ready yet,” Sam calls, holding a hand over the receiver. “How are you feeling, Dean?”

Dean’s reply is textbook. “Fine.”

_Stop talking._

With Castiel’s voice trickling back into Sam’s ear his attention is dilapidated, rapidly falling apart when straining to hear both sides.

_Stop._

“Sorry, what?” His fingers dig into his temples. Those djinns had been a pain in the ass, leaving him with a hangover-esque headache for days.

Turning on his heels he meets the face of Dean, blank like a clean slate and missing the signs of being drugged by sleep, either a lack of or too much of.

“You’re giving me a headache,” Dean narrows his eyes accusingly at Sam’s phone, not at Sam himself. “Turn it off.”

Confused, Sam tries to understand Castiel’s words, sounding close to a highlight of a warning sound, before he excuses himself on the basis of the dark look in Dean’s face and eyes. Where the light doesn’t reach is more than enough to convince him to continue it later—for some reason he feels that Dean has been around for much longer than glaring at the coffee machine.

“Everything okay?” He meets Dean’s eyes, which are off to him in a manner he can’t place his finger on. “I’m just talking to Cas. He says he hasn’t heard from you.”

Turning back to the coffee, Dean ignores him except with a slighted shrug. He pours himself a mug, cradling it in his hands despite how hot it must be. The dour look on his face wears with shadows of fatigue, backing Sam’s suspicions as Dean pointedly ignores him in his morning grumpiness.

The voice on the other side crackles through the phone. _“Is that Dean, Sam? What about the djinn you mentioned?”_

His hand slips from the receiver as Dean excuses himself without a word, disappearing into the hallway and making headway back to his room. “Sorry about that. Dean’s grumpy this morning for some reason. But I doubt it could be related to this djinn case we worked on in Arizona. It was a little messy, but no more than usual.”

He turns back to the counter after having watched Dean go, listening to Castiel as he sharply remembers his forgotten toast. Though when he eyes the toaster, padding over to retrieve it, there’s nothing there.

Castiel’s moved on to his own case in providing explanation for why he’s been gone, prompted by Sam’s interest, when Sam realizes his toast is straight missing.

As Castiel continues to update him on the witch coven and the strange spell he’s been trying to figure out, Sam looks all over, his empty coffee mug sitting on the counter and no toast in sight.

“Dammit, Dean,” he quips, interrupting Castiel briefly as he scowls over his lack of toast. He shrugs off the matter, deciding to make another piece as he heads over to the pantry near the trash, looking down for just a moment.

In the trash, he catches a waft of burned toast. Along with the plate that had been sitting on the counter, or so Sam thought.

As he retrieves the plate, of all things _not_ a paper one, his brows knit, lumped together in confusion. The plate’s certainly nothing to keep in a china cabinet, but still, it’s not cheap to replace.

“What the hell?”

~

Dean’s findings are all but coming to fruition. In retrospect, he hasn’t figured out a damn thing with the stupid book and whatever happened last night he can’t remember, but the headache is immense.

The heat of the coffee in his hand barely bothers him when he gulps it down with a few swallows. It burns all the way down, stirring some conscious thought into his head as he sits at his bed, the blue book in front of him. He leans against the wall, fixing the book with a grunt and a pointed stare, sipping coffee as he figures out what to do.

“What the hell are you even good for?” he asks aloud, grabbing the front corner of the book and flipping it open. Straight to the angel’s page, he studies the image for what feels like the thousandth time, nothing greeting him.

“Stupid book.”

There are no words nor Enochian symbols, and it sounds crazy but he swears that the Enochian on the cover has changed. He stared at it so long he’d gotten a second headache before getting up to get something to drink.

He’d had some weird dreams too—too weird to want to remember, not weird enough to be able to. Something about the book, which just shows that he’s starting to become a huge nerd like Sam or he’s really losing it.

It’s only when he stares long enough at the eyes of _Michael_ does he feel the darkness start to expand in his own. An abysmal, almost dismal sort of black that overtakes his vision much like a blackout drunken experience.

The bitter black coffee grounds his eyes see show him nothing for all of a couple seconds. An alcoholic burn flits through his fingers, from where they cup the edges of the book, splaying over the angel’s image. Pain follows with a rapid warmth, similar to the cut of a knife as the blood begins to break through the skin.

In his mind’s eye, he can see an angel there. Though the angel no longer glances down toward a corner of a page but turns its head to face him, made of stone and as expressionless as a statue. Fire curls in his bones, a self-righteous, unholy kind of burn when words echo in his head rather than tumble from his mouth.

“What _are_ you?”

The angel speaks without moving its lips, still as stone. Like a rigor mortis captured within marble. _‘I am your truth. You need me.’_

Suddenly the world darkens beyond what can be considered possible, Dean watching himself from another’s point of view, trapped inside his own head. In the physical world, he slumps forward, his head dangling above his chest.

“You—why are you in my head?” He sounds like an alcoholic sans alcohol, slurring and feeling a frigid tremor rigidly shifting through his bones. Like a sparrow’s, with how weak he feels. “Get out of my head!”

‘ _Sword of Michael, you can hear my voice because you are chosen.’_ His ears ring with the deafening volume at which the words scream into his ears. _‘I have glimpsed beyond the husk you call a soul and I have seen inside. You are an empty carcass awaiting purpose.’_

His voice loses its strength as that of Michael’s rings in his ears with a booming, thunderous roar. _‘I can see inside you. I know the depths of your soul.’_

The angel sits from afar, its wings spread like in the picture, its expression still the same haunting one—that of Michael, the voice reminds him. _‘A shallow grave for your self-righteousness to fester. You have found me for the reason you no longer have to exist. Speak to me.’_

“Get out! Get outta my—”

A vice grip tightens on his throat, stars bursting in his eyes. _‘Let me in.’_

Dean pushes and fights against the darkness that encapsulates him, lost in a mix of dizziness and the floating, unnerving feeling of being somewhere than in the present. It’s not his head with how dark it is, uninviting at best.

When he blinks the angel is in front of him. Colored in like stained glass but at an angle it appears flat, no more than a drawing as the eyes start to move to him. Its lips do not move.

‘ _Let me in.’_

Gold letters stamp onto his eyes and burn black, blinding him by the branding of Enochian.

“Why?” he croaks, his voice lost to the ringing in his ears from the thundering of Michael’s voice. He’s not even sure it’s Michael beyond being told it is, having never heard the enormity of an archangel’s voice before. Strange, since he can’t hear Castiel all that well. “What the hell do you _want—_ ”

Marble fingers seize his throat and his vision blurs, drawn into the light as the angel’s wings spread and he finds himself staring into the eyes of righteous fury. _‘You need me. You called for me and I have come for you. Do not lie to me.’_

It wasn’t supposed to be _heard,_ Dean relays to himself numbly as his bleached bones rattle in place. The solemn cry out in the fury of frustration was not meant to be heard but somehow listened to, evaporating and leaving the residue of salt crusting against a marble angel. Sam had touched it, mentioned the interesting portrayal of angels and Dean had only stopped where his eyes had met the angel’s, crusts of stripped marble like paths of blood trailing from its eyes.

Under the angel’s demonizing stare, he crumbles. Reaching into the depths of himself he comes up empty, just as empty as before, no less whole but hollowed out in more recent days. Just trying to reach into himself to summon the words leaves him empty-handed.

“I can’t,” he sobs a breath, his eyes bleeding the moment he averts his eyes. “I can’t do it. _Sam—_ ”

‘ _You are the righteous man. No other will come before you.’_ Michael’s voice is in a hiss, the shadows of his wings rising like wisps of smoke twisting into horns. _‘_ He _means nothing to you.’_

Before he can counter with a scream or a shout, demanding to be heard that it’s not true, Michael interrupts him. _‘You cannot protect him. He will leave you when you fail.’_ His feathers glint like knives in unknown light.

“Stop it!” Dean’s hands wrap in his hair and tug at the roots, collapsing to his knees. “Leave me alone! Get away from me!”

A hand reaches out to him and forces his chin up, back to those hypnotizing dark eyes. _‘Call on me and I will never let you fall.’_

The fingers creep lower, the light tinged red as the first drop of blood in the water while they slither and wrap around Dean’s throat.

‘ _Speak to me.’_

~

The conjuring of Castiel is a conflagration of light and distant thunder. Sam tells him about the book Dean’s been guarding before Castiel hangs up on him. In short work, he reappears with a snap of sound breaking and temporarily deafening Sam.

Headaches, moodiness; all regular things expected from Dean, but to develop so quickly it grows concern like a bruise. Which in turn leads to the series of text messages that become Castiel calling him not so calmly to demand more information.

“Where is he?” Castiel’s first breath is a rush, his eyes darting around with a frantic haze to them. “Sam, how long has he had the book for? Where did he acquire it?”

Sam takes long strides to keep up the moment Castiel takes off in the direction of Dean’s room. “From the library. He’s had it for a while, but I didn’t think anything of it besides the Enochian on the front.” He breaks into a jog as Castiel disappears from his side, cursing Castiel’s sudden entrances and exits. But his mind clouds with worry, going off the look in Castiel’s eyes and how...odd Dean has been.

He picks up the pace when he hears shouting coming from Dean’s room, storming down and slamming the door open where he finds Castiel standing before Dean.

“Hand over the book, Dean,” Castiel demands, holding out his hand like he’s not waiting for an answer, much less a question about the order.

Dean stands near his bed, and to Sam’s horror his eyes have trails of blood running down his cheeks, still fresh from how they drip openly before them. Dean’s eyes, on the other hand, are an entirely different story—wild, unseeing, and with a possessed haze that darkens them to broken pools of black.

“Dean, what the hell!?” Sam steps forward, his hand reaching toward his belt when Castiel bars him from moving any closer with an arm coming up between him and Dean. “What the hell is going on?”

Castiel is remarkably firm. It’s not just the concern in his voice as he eyes the book in Dean’s hand, the gold lettering hidden by Dean’s thumb. “Let go of the book, Dean.” He steps closer as he speaks, Dean’s shoulders tensed and his lips in a tight frown. “You’ve had it for long enough.”

Sam watches as Dean’s lips split into a grim sneer, a growl of all things coming out of his throat as a guttural noise when Castiel steps closer. In a split second it’s a rush of movement that unfolds between them, Castiel suddenly grabbing for the book in Dean’s hand and an ungodly noise rips free from Dean. There’s a scuffle and Sam’s gun is in his hands while Castiel rips the book away from Dean, a heavy air settling in once the book slips out of Castiel’s hands and falls open to the floor.

Castiel’s gaze follows the book and Sam’s there, reaching to grab it when Castiel stops him. “Don’t,” he warns, keeping one eye on Dean as he bends down to grab it, the open pages blank to him.

But as he grabs it, Sam’s gun trained on Dean as Dean breathes roughly from the scuffle, words appear in black ink. A darkness overtakes Castiel, gripping onto him tightly as his vision chokes out before his grace kicks in and disperses it. A sinister feeling lingers in his fingers where he holds the book, closing it to the gold lettering of the title.

The low rumble of Dean’s growl is unmistakable. “As I thought,” Castiel observes, caution in his voice as Sam lowers his gun, meeting Dean’s eyes. “This book is cursed, Dean. How long have you had it?”

“Not long enough,” Dean bites back, his movements jarring and strange. His eyes are impossibly dark. “Give it back, Cas.”

Castiel shakes his head slowly as Sam shoots him a look that demands explanation. “The curse of this book was crafted to burrow into its victim’s soul and expose its innermost desires.” He turns the book over, tucking it against his side as its dark aura pokes at him with a thorny grasp. “What did you see?”

Like a robot, Dean shows no hesitation as he answers. “Michael,” he says, sounding more like himself as his shoulders start to relax. “He—it told me these words, like the poem you were trying to figure out.”

Castiel remains wary of Dean. “How long did you have this book?” he asks again, Sam now watching the relay from the side after holstering his gun, a bit of guilt to him for pulling it so quickly. “I need to know how long you’ve held onto it.”

“Dunno,” Dean answers lightheartedly, rolling his shoulders and rubbing at one with the opposite hand. “Maybe a week or two, didn’t really pay attention to it.”

“What’re you talking about?” Sam interrupts, now starting to catch on to the air of caution exuding from Castiel. “You’ve had that since before the case in Arizona. Actually...” he trails off, shaking his head as his eyes scrunch, bringing a hand to his eye as he feels a sudden ache behind it. “You’ve had that since I was looking up Native American lore, so over a month ago.”

Dean’s gaze sharpens. “You’re just messing with me. What’s the big deal? So it’s cursed—I’m fine, you guys are fine, shit happens. But it was showing stuff that you needed, Cas, so how is it that bad?”

He takes a bold step forward as Castiel backs off, alarm bells ringing in Sam’s head. “You’re still defending the book that tried to kill you, Dean.” Unsettling as the blood trails on the older Winchester are, he seems entirely unfazed. “You bled from your eyes. You may be more consumed by the curse than you believe.”

“Nah,” Dean huffs, his mouth twitching to show a flash of teeth. “Why don’t you just drop it? Like I said, it’s not the worst I’ve been through.”

“Dean, you don’t even sound like yourself right now,” Sam interjects, “just listen to yourself! Whatever that book’s doing to you, it’s not good. It’s not worth losing you to some curse.”

Dean rolls his shoulders, a series of pops traveling down his spine. His head hangs over his chest as he sighs deeply, all tension in his body seemingly melting away.

In a flash, he turns back up to Castiel and Sam and his irises are red, the rest of his eyes pitch black when he lets out a snarl and lunges at Castiel.

~

“What the hell was that!?”

Sam isn’t taking Dean’s possession too well. He paces in place, torn up about Dean who lies unconscious, chained to the chair in the bunker’s panic room. While the devil’s trap may not hold curses, the iron chains can keep him there.

Castiel has been eying the book sitting away from him on a nearby desk for the better half of an hour since Dean’s attack. He refuses to let Sam touch it, he himself touching the infernal thing only when necessary. Its dark aura has a strong impact, even on someone like Sam who remarks on the heaviness in the air, comparing it to a thick black cloud looming overhead.

The book had exposed itself to him like offering a tempting lure to an unsuspecting victim. Once the curse had reached his grace it retracted, pulling back its black tendrils upon realizing its target wasn’t human. Like Dean had said, the book wrote words in Enochian, or tried to. They too had spelled out something of interest, pertaining to the poem written in code. Words that had no Latin equivalent, strangely fitting into place when he’d sent the text to Dean. Sam had provided him with room for question, with the red of _lateritious_ , strangely in a text by witches.

The poem itself, ripped from a book, reads like a perverted psalm. On the outside it reads as poetry, but its meanings, veiled with strange words, are far from the light. He’d determined its purpose—to wrap around targets and subject them to a form of torture. Only when the last lines were to be read, still somewhat of a mystery to him, would the spell’s full form be conjured.

So, he treads cautiously. “That was not your brother, Sam. The curse of this book is ancient, working to control the mind of whoever possesses it before it moves on once the victim is deceased. Most likely by his own doing.” Sam stiffens some, his gaze still on the door as he stops his pacing to stare absently. “It is remarkable that Dean had not been worse than what he is now, given how long he had the book.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t explain what he saw. I mean, Michael? He’s in the Cage, and yet...” Sam shakes his head and the accusation goes unsaid, but Castiel has more than a glimmer of an idea to what Sam means. “Even if it’s the book doing it to him, you said it shows anyone’s darkest desires, and for him that was...”

“Michael,” Castiel nods, unable to explain that one for Dean. “Sam, I understand you have questions. But right now he is not himself. The curse had complete control over him, and recovering from such will take time. I have done what I can to keep him alive, but I cannot purge the curse on my own.”

“So? Cas, I pulled my gun on him—I don’t know why I did. I just remember seeing him like that, and all of a sudden the gun was in my hand and I was ready to shoot him.”

Castiel’s lips thin into a pinched frown. “You can’t blame yourself, Sam. The curse is meant to control anyone near its victim. The cycle continues when the victim dies, absorbing the soul and moving onto the next. That was hardly your fault.”

Sam isn’t convinced, guilt still hanging heavily off of him, only missing the neon sign to accompany him. “So what do we do now? Sit around and wait and hope my brother doesn’t die from a curse?”

At that moment, noises come from behind the door, sounding like faint, muffled groans. The two exchange glances and Sam is the first to call it, reaching for the door and pulling it open in a rush.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam calls out, inviting himself in to the dim light of the panic room. His eyes adjust quickly to the sight of Dean slumped over in the chair, chains hanging limply from his wrists.

With a startled cry Sam races toward Dean, kneeling by him as he tries to hold up Dean’s head. “Dean, hey, hey—Dean! Dean!”

Castiel is there in an instant, pressing two fingers to Dean’s neck. “He’s still breathing.” His eyes glow as he summons his grace, feeling the bite of dark magic from Dean’s skin. “The curse has taken its toll on him. Be careful, Sam.”

Sam, however, isn’t convinced. “This is Dean we’re talking about. Just ‘cause it’s some curse doesn’t mean we can just chain him up here.” He reaches for the cuff on Dean’s left, his fingers sliding to his pocket where the keys are held. “Sitting here like this isn’t going to do him any favors.”

Castiel is not fast enough when he reaches for Sam, a warning on his breath. “Sam—”

As soon as Sam’s fingers wrap around the keys in his pocket, Dean’s head snaps up, his entire body moving in a struggle against the chains as he lets out a furious roar. Sam is thrown back from the force as the sounds of the iron cuffs breaking fill the air, Castiel catching the slam of dark magic at full force.

Castiel is quick to shove Dean back down into the chair, meeting Dean’s limpid eyes with his lips parted into a snarl. “This isn’t you, Dean.” He struggles to keep Dean down, hearing the click of teeth near his arm where Dean surges to bite him. “We’re trying our best. You have to believe me—”

“Get off! Get off of me!” Dean snarls and spits, his expression unusually calm despite the malice in his intentions. “Give it to me! Give it back!”

Sam starts to move out of the corner of Castiel’s eye. Except he isn’t moving to help. “Sam,” Castiel calls, his voice a stern warning like a lighthouse in the fog. “Don’t.”

From behind him, Sam stops, narrowing his eyes as he shakes his head, clearing his head of whispers that had started in his ears. He tosses a look back to Dean who struggles for only moments longer, up until Castiel presses two fingers to his forehead and slumps in his seat.

Dazed, Sam is the first to speak. “How the hell do we get rid of that thing?” He breathes deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose as he catches a trickle of blood from Dean’s nose.

“I don’t know how to without killing him,” Castiel confesses then, his fingers welding the cuffs back into place. “Its hold on Dean is deep. I believe it has already attached to his soul.”

A hand over his eyes, Sam spares the book a glance. “We’ve gotta figure out something. It’s starting to get to me now, and I don’t want to be the one to put a bullet between my brother’s eyes.”

Castiel surveys the iron cuffs, notably lacking sigils that leave charred marks where they once were. “Dean will survive so long as the book is not in his possession. The only way to destroy a curse like this would be to burn the book itself with holy oil. That will end the curse, but I am not certain his soul can take it.”

“Great,” Sam turns away from them, heading back out. Defeat lingers in his voice, though not openly admitted. “Just great.”

“Don’t give up yet. We will solve this, no matter how long it takes.”

Sam gives him a side-eye. “Easy for you to say.” Despite his frustration, he sounds desperately hopeful.

~

Dean wakes up again in a much calmer mood. More removed than anything, but awake when he meets Castiel’s eyes on him. Sam, standing off to the side, looks to be dozing against the wall.

“Hey guys,” Dean tries his voice in a whisper, rough with how raw his throat feels. His head is spinning and his blood feels dry in his veins. “How’s it going?”

“You’re awake,” Castiel greets him, Sam’s head coming up as he catches the low sound of Castiel’s voice. “How’re you feeling, Dean?”

“Like I’ve been set on fire from the inside.” For some reason, Sam looks to Castiel, worried. Dean notices it, but doesn’t have the strength to comment on it. His mind reels with what little he remembers, a foul, metallic taste in the back of his mouth. “Where’s the book?”

The mood in the room changes instantly. Castiel stares him down, his fingers twitching at his side as he approaches Dean. He grabs Dean, his fingers pulling up an eyelid as Castiel’s face comes unbearably close, surveying Dean closely.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down—I was just asking so I could know what you guys did with it,” Dean jerks his head away, feeling the cut of a fingernail under his eye that stings with a fresh burn. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. I don’t want it, I want to get rid of it.”

“We’re working on it,” Sam comes over, not as stern-faced as Castiel but something disturbing about his expression. “Cas says it’s got its claws in you pretty deep. Apparently the only way we can get rid of it is with holy oil.”

Dean raises a brow. “And you haven’t yet, I’m guessing by that sour face you’re sporting.”

“Burning the book is not as easy as it sounds, Dean.” Castiel butts in firmly as he presses two fingers to Dean’s pulse. His eyes roam all over Dean, searching for something. “The curse is latched onto your soul. By setting the book on fire, it’s also setting the part within you on fire. With how much it’s weakened you, it’s possible there could be complications.”

“So? I’d rather be barbecued by holy cooking oil than become whatever the hell I was when you got here,” he stares pointedly at Castiel. Trying to get comfortable, the chains clink and rattle with his movements. “C’mon, Sam, listen to me. I don’t wanna be a zombie.”

“Well, sorry for trying to keep you alive,” Sam grumbles, ignoring Dean’s eye roll as he turns to Castiel. “How’s he holding up?”

Castiel’s fingers slip away from Dean, apparently satisfied. “No worse than before. He appears to be normal for now.”

“Uh, hello? Right in front of you guys,” Dean squirms in his chains a little more, blaming an itch from being cramped into the chair for so long. His fingernail scratches at a sigil etched into his cuffs. “Seriously, just get rid of the book already. I’m dying to get out of here.”

“Sit tight, ‘cause it’s gonna be a while,” Sam shoots back, missing the sigh that escapes Dean as he leans his head back. Castiel excuses himself for a moment, passing by Sam through the open door to the outside where Dean watches him stop by a place he can’t see.

For some reason it grips him tightly, like a cold hand squeezing around his chest. The feeling is invidious, painfully grasping as it closes his throat with a strangling hold. On the outside he only coughs, Sam unaware of how quickly Dean’s world blurs to black.

“It’s out there, isn’t it.” His voice trips into a growl, anger leeching into his fingers that clasp into fists. “Here I thought you were more than that, Sam. What’re you trying to do, use it now? Is it bothering you that much, like when you pulled a gun on me?”

Sam spins on his heels and tosses a haphazard glance to outside. Castiel isn’t there. “Dean, what are you talking about? That book’s bad news—you weren’t yourself when Cas got here, and I...”

“You what? Just decided you were gonna end it, just like that!?” The scratching on his cuff grows louder, drowned in the sounds of a rising argument kindled into flames. “I’d rather go like that than sit here waiting for you two to figure out whether or not you’re gonna kill me!”

“You shouldn’t have let it do that to you! Don’t you remember all those times I tried to help you?” Sam’s brain is clouded, his head fuzzy and black seeping into his mind. He shakes off the haze, realizing he’s falling when he hears the clinking of chains. “Dean, I didn’t mean to—I just wanna keep you alive. Please, you gotta bear it with us.”

Dean’s expression twists and he jerks on his arms, chains being uprooted from the ground with a crumble of concrete and the snap of iron flailing toward Sam. It catches Sam in the face, knocking him back as Dean uproots himself with little more than a slight struggle. His feet still catch on the ground as the chains tug and pull, still rooted in place. He tugs and pulls, Sam slumping to the ground with bloodied marks over his face, out cold.

“Damn it!” he thunders, curses coming to mind as he struggles before breaking the chains in his fingers. The ones on his hands remain, the sigils still etched in place and strong enough to keep him from breaking them. He pays it no mind, his mind set on a purpose, reaching for the open door.

Chains drag behind him as he growls and grunts like a monster, fully possessed with his eyes seeing red. As painfully blurry as it is, he keeps going, reaching the metal desk outside where his eyes catch sight of the gold letters on the blue cover.

He grapples for it, blinded by his desire to have it as the book calls to him. Its voice is storming, demanding to be grabbed and taken and never left again—

“Dean.” A flutter of wings interrupts Dean shortly before he finds himself thrown to the wall. His head slams against it, forcing his teeth to clack together over his tongue, blood filling his mouth.

When he opens his eyes he’s met with glowing blue eyes, bright and hostile with Castiel’s arm pinning him to the back wall, just under his throat. The shadows of wings catch Dean’s eye beyond Castiel, flared and nothing like the wispy images of smoke he remembers of Michael.

Then he hears the click of a lighter and the splash of oil, smelling the fire before it starts to burn. He cranes his eyes and Sam’s there, holding his bloodied head as he sets the book on fire, the pitcher of holy oil in his other hand.

As soon as the flames touch the book it burns black, a shrill, demonic scream fulminating from the book—and Dean himself as the black flames climb high and burn quickly. His own chest is on fire, the core of him set aflame. His skin sears and he screams at the top of his burning lungs, smoke coming from his throat with hot embers of flesh mixing with the blood coming from his mouth.

The book finally reaches its breaking point and disintegrates, disappearing in a flash once it has been burned beyond recognition. All that’s left is ashes, along with the growing pool of blood at Dean’s feet.

Dean hangs limply in Castiel’s possession, Sam calling his name beyond the depths of which Dean can hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I am not content leaving this with only a chapter. Perhaps another may surface.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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